


Bones

by JC_Cathrine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anatomy, Gen, Physiology, Short, Sweet, Written for a Class, bones - Freeform, no point, to the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JC_Cathrine/pseuds/JC_Cathrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, a budding medical student, if having a problem with his biology class. His roommate, Sherlock, assumes, (correctly), that it's because of a lack of motivation and using John's ever-present empathy and sentiment to remind John why he's becoming a doctor in the first place. Written for my Anatomy and Physiology class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written for my Anatomy and Physiology class. We're studying the skeletal system and needed to use at least 15 words from a given list. This would have gone a more risque rout...but I did have to turn it is. It's short, but I hope it's enjoyable on some level.

"Oh my god." John said as he collapsed; face down, on his bed. He had entered the room with a banging door following him and his shoulder bag flung roughly away from the resting spot on his clavicle, landing somewhere near the vicinity of his desk. His roommate just raised one eyebrow, the black hair falling from his cranium slightly hiding the motion.  
"What is it this time?" The roommate, Sherlock, asked. He must have been in a good mood, John noted, usually he wouldn't have bothered using the energy to even notice him, much less open his mandible to speak.  
"This class," he answered, once the other's words had worked into his brain and processed, "I'm having trouble with a biology class. That's my best subject." His voice was muffled by the bed and it was starting to get hard to breath. He twisted his vertebrae and rolled over, staring at the ceiling.  
Sherlock finally gave him the grace to look up from his book, when he rolled his eyes and set down his book. His long and elegant phalanges smoothed over the leather cover. He sat up and stretched his legs, patella's popping softly. He stood and walked to this side of the room, back turned toward John, who was watching him curiously.  
The dark haired man stretched again, scapula's moving smoothing beneath his shirt, and John rolled his eyes; Sherlock was known to go hours, sometimes days, with limited movement. Shawn grabbed his coat and began to make his way to the door, his ribs showing too prominently to be considered healthy.  
"You need to eat more." John commented lightly, "Where are you going?"  
"We." Sherlock corrected, as if John had personally offended him by not getting the pronoun right, "where are we going?"  
John moved, his pelvic bone now supporting him and parched on the edge of his bed, "Fine, where are we," he repeated, "going?"  
"Out," his friend answered, "You're having trouble with your biology course. Obviously this is because you're starting to feel overwhelmed by what this means, and you need a reminder." Sherlock raised his humerus and twisted his radius and carpals in an impatient, beckoning gesture.  
"Okaay," John drew out the word, tilting his skull and rubbing the back of his neck in a long suffering gesture, "but where are we going?"  
"Can't it be a surprise?" Sherlock asked, obviously eager to go, one group of metatarsals halfway how the door.  
"No."  
A breath of air was escaped from behind the sternum and released through the mouth, "Fine. We're going to the children’s ward, the sentiment will remind you why you chose to become a doctor in the first place."  
John rolled his eyes, oh of course Sherlock would try to use the dreaded sentiment against him, but he figured it may work. He needed that extra boost of motivation, a reminder of why he was putting himself through this torture that was medical school. This, Sherlock’s suggestion, would certainly do it.  
He stood and grabbed his coat, "All right, Sherlock," he said, walking past the taller man and out the door, "Let’s go then, I needed to stretch my legs anyway."  
Sherlock nodded and followed him, closing and locking their door behind him, everyone one need a reminder of sentiment every once and while. He smiled and caught up to his friend.


End file.
